Silver Sky
by QuirkyLittleTyrant
Summary: [Sacred Stones] A series of shortish EirikaSeth oneshots, 'cause they're, like, my favorite couple and stuff. Obviously I'm incapable of writing summaries. Reviews are much appreciated.
1. The Lesson

Silver Sky

AN-Woo. Fire Emblem isn't mine. In any case, please enjoy and attempt to ignore my rather obvious lack of talent. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated; I have a thick skin. If it sucks, please say so, but at least give a reason (and, no, "I hate you" doesn't count). I can't dish it out, but I can take it.

And with that, on with the show.

* * *

The Lesson 

"Milady, are you sure—?"

"_Yes_, Seth." Her tone was exasperated, but she was grinning broadly. "For the thousandth time."

A breeze flew past us as she spoke. I watched as it first tousled the manes of our horses and then her hair, Eirika ineffectually combing it with her free hand, her eyes alight and eager.

I sighed. "Of course, Princess. I meant no disrespect."

It had been my suggestion to train so far from the camp in the beginning of her lessons, if only to keep her from becoming self conscious as we practiced. Now, however, she was just as skilled as any young Renais knight, and yet she still insisted we have our sparring matches far from the others. And despite my constant assurances that her skill was more than enough to adequately defend herself from any foe foolish enough to attack her, she still insisted that we continued the lessons, even though I had taught her more than I had any of the young trainees under my command.

And still I sparred with her.

She smiled. "Ready?"

We faced each other, weapons drawn, bowing graciously, just as we had a thousand times before.

The rapier lashed forward towards my midsection with impressive speed, glinting in the sunlight. I moved to parry, watching as she pulled the blade back and aimed higher; an impressive and unexpected move that I just barely avoided.

Her hair flew in front of her face as she moved, graceful and beautiful. Her expression was cool, precise—this was no game to her. These were the skills that may one day save her life.

She thrust the blade forward again. I moved to parry—only to realize that she had executed a perfect feint. I felt a rush of satisfaction; she was wonderfully skillful with the blade. I dodged nimbly out of the way.

"Not at our best today, Seth?" Her tone was light but her statement did successfully bruise a small part of my pride.

I merely grinned.

I aimed carefully and she threw up her weapon to block, just as any swordsmen would've done. I pulled back, aiming again for the grip of her weapon, and, succeeding, heard her cry out as I sent her rapier flying out of her hand and onto the grass.

She stared at me, shocked.

I was horrified.

This was the sort of thing that I had done as a boy with the other hopeful cavaliers, stupid tricks we invented to amuse ourselves, more play than practice—grossly inappropriate for Princess Eirika. She was still staring at the sword lying in the grass when I spoke to her, wracked with guilt.

"Milady, I-I humbly beg your pardon! That—this was—we should discontinue…"

I trailed off, belatedly realizing her shocked expression had disappeared, and was replaced by one that seemed very close to…mischievous.

"Prin—?"

She lunged at me, yelling an incoherent battle cry very much unsuited for one of her station, sword all forgotten. She was by no means heavy, but the unexpected force of the contact was enough to send me crashing down onto the grass, her on top of me.

"Take that for your treachery, Silver Knight!" she crowed, triumphant. And then she laughed, bright and beautiful, and it took me a moment to realize I was laughing too, for the first time in a long, long time.

It was when our laughter finally faded did I truly become aware of the embarrassing nature of our position; I noticed her fingers had somehow managed to lace with mine. Our eyes met, and only then did I realize our faces were nearly touching. Her breathing was uneven. My throat was dry.

Heart pounding relentlessly in my ears, my fingers lightly brushed her hair, settling on her cheek. Her mouth parted, lightly gasping at my touch, and a hot thrill of electricity coursed through my entire body, every muscle tense. The impulse to meet her lips was frightening in its intensity, impossible to resist. I moved towards her, lifting my neck from the grass, pulse hastening as I saw her eyes gently flutter closed, eagerly closing the scant gap between us in kind—

_By the Stones, have you gone mad!?_

I jerked back. Her eyes snapped open, filled with shock. Reluctantly, she slid off of me, standing and watching me intently as I slowly rose to my feet, ignoring the faint flush that lingered on her cheeks. She chewed her lower lip, slowly raising her hand as if she were trying to reach for me. I turned away; knowing that if I did not the fire in my stomach would force me to finish what we had nearly done.

"Seth…"

She was pleading. I dared not meet her eyes.

"My apologies, Princess."

I placed the rapier into her outstretched hand, barely hearing her thank me for the practice over the sorrow in her eyes.

I mounted my steed and set off, desperate to forget the softness of her skin.


	2. Intoxication

AN – Don't own 'em. Nintendo do and therefore have come up with such travesties such as NatashaxSeth. Damn those _fiends_ and their alternative pairings!

I always wanted to do a "Everyone Gets TRASHED LOL!" Fire Emblem fanfic, but, unfortunately, I lack the talent. So you're stuck with this.

* * *

Intoxication

It was a victory hard won and so I had no protests to voice when Forde announced a spur-of-the-moment celebration.

The local villagers had been kind enough to allow us to stay in the area for the night, and despite my longing to see this war's end, I knew how weary they all were, how much the death and destruction weighed down upon their minds. How could I refuse them a mere night of much needed rest?

I did not, however, expect there to be drinking.

The local villagers had also been kind enough to supply us with more than enough ale for several armies. The amount had worried me at first, but as I watched an oddly cheerful Sir Gilliam and a broadly grinning Sir Garcia raise their tankards with a raucous cheer, I realized I would soon have very little to be concerned about.

While I had politely declined the offered mugs, much preferring to watch the escapades of the others than engage in any of my own, my brother had joined in with the declaration he would drink enough for both of us, which prompted an already fairly intoxicated Prince Innes to forcefully and explicitly challenge him to a drinking contest.

Innes had lost by the third tankard and we placed him next to Ross, who had been rendered incapable of standing very early on in the evening. The boy might've almost been his father's match in combat, but he was sorely lacking in his father's drinking ability. I stifled a laugh when Innes snored loudly, muttering something about targets and arrows and a certain pegasus knight.

My own knight seemed almost as inexperienced as Frelia's Prince with handling ale. Seth had been more or less forced into the company of Gilliam and Garcia for most of the night, which most likely caused him to drink far more than he intended. I grinned, recalling how the well-spoken, graceful Silver Knight had not-so-slowly transformed into a clumsy boy who seemed unable to remember words, stringing his awkward, stilted speech together with exaggerated gestures and frequent pauses. At first I had subtly tried to allow him to escape from the deadly trifecta of Gilliam, Garcia, and Duessel, but the three seemed determined to get Seth as drunk as possible, and so I contended myself by sitting across the fire and listening.

It had been dark for some time when I looked up as a rather obscene joke issued by Sir Duessel elicited roars of laughter from those on the other side of the fire. Well, from most of them. Seth looked confused for a moment before awkwardly forcing a slight smile. My brother roughly slapped his shoulder, voicing a choice addition to the story which sent them into near hysterics. I grinned, despite myself. Seth's own smile broadened into a true one, and he turned away from the others.

His eyes met mine.

They lingered there and something tightened within me. I felt the heat rise on my cheeks as he opened his mouth soundlessly for a moment, then paused, sighed, and turned back to the others.

"I think I should…," he hesitated, frowning, gesturing vaguely with both hands.

"'ave sommore?" Gilliam asked, lifting a fresh mug to the best of his ability.

Seth quickly shook his head, which seemed to be a mistake, as he stopped that abruptly and placed a hand on his forehead. Gilliam shrugged and downed the proffered ale without much ceremony, much to the loud amusement of Garcia.

"Dance?" Gerik grinned and Tethys, standing beside him, rolled her eyes and smiled at the belated laughter of the others.

"No." Seth stared at Gerik curiously, as though unsure whether his remark had been a joke or not. "I should…er…"

"Go?" Ephraim suggested, looking genuinely concerned with aiding the General in finding his missing word.

"Yes!" he positively beamed at my brother, and I could no longer help it—I giggled raucously. "Yes, I should go. Go back to the…the…"

"Tent!" Ephraim supplied helpfully. Seth nodded back with such enthusiasm my nearly contained laughter now exploded out of me as he stood far too quickly and nearly fell over backwards.

I found him minutes later on the wrong side of the camp.

"Seth?"

He nearly leapt, obviously surprised. "Princess?"

"What are you doing?"

He blinked. "Going back to…to my…er…"

"Tent?" I couldn't help but grin.

His face brightened and he nodded. "Yes, that."

"Ah. Well, I'd think you'd have some difficulty if you went into that one."

He tilted his head with an unspoken question in the same way puppy would, and I wondered why he had never done that while sober. I found it utterly charming.

"That's Marisa's tent."

"Oh!" He released the tent flap as though it had burned him, rapidly backing away in alarm so comically I couldn't help but start giggling again. He favored me with an embarrassed smile, looking around the camp as though he had never been there before in his life, much less prepared its defensive layout.

"Then mine would be…?"

"Would you like me to help you?"

He looked at me. For a moment, his brows knit together, as though he was trying to remember something, but then he smiled softly in a way that made my breath catch. He nodded.

I paused for a moment to gather up my courage and, without giving myself to think on it, took his hand.

A pleasurable lighting lanced up my arm and settled in my stomach, leaving my skin to tingle in its wake. Remembering the location of Seth's quarters became much more difficult when the only thing I could focus on was the feel of fingers against my own, but I eventually found it, remembering that it was near Cormag's tent.

His wyvern, which made the position of his tent rather obvious, watched us both with large eyes, sniffing dispassionately as I stopped in front of Seth's tent.

"Here we are," I announced. I did not loosen my grip on his hand, and neither, I noticed, did he. We simply stood there, his eyes on mine, ignorant of the deep, rumbling bass of an inquisitive wyvern.

_I could have him_.

The thought came unbidden, the realization intoxicating, my mind reeled with the absurd simplicity of it all. How easy it would be to seduce him in this state; how we could effortlessly blame the alcohol the next morning and think nothing of it; how sweet it would be to feel his naked skin against my own…

I immediately dropped his hand, face burning, sick with shame at my own lust.

"Forgive me," I whispered. He looked confused, and then I saw a spark of recollection in his eyes. A light, feathery smile appeared on his lips and, suddenly, he took me into a sweeping embrace, burying his face in my neck.

A hot, shivering sensation engulfed me totally. My head felt light and my knees nearly gave out beneath me. I clutched at him desperately, equal parts passion and the need for support.

"You're beautiful, Eirika," he mumbled softly into my ear, making me gasp—and then let me go just as swiftly as he had grabbed me, leaving me to stagger on weak knees as he smiled, turned, and crawled into his tent with a contented sigh.

I am unsure how long I stayed there, but I could no longer hear the voices of the others when I managed to collect myself enough to walk towards my own tent. Cormag's wyvern whinned as I left, and I was fairly certain the beast was laughing at me.


	3. Nightmare

Disclaimer- I own them all, actually. They're all mine and I'm making a billion dollars by writing this instead of pathetically wasting time I should be spending on an English paper.

Just kidding. It's a history paper.

AN – Apologies for the somewhat lengthy hiatus; I've been busy doing that work all college students love so very very much and enjoying my awesome break. But I'm back. And it's late. 3 AM. Wow.

The following is inspired by a save file I have in which my beserked Eirika, with two hitpoints and armed with an iron sword decided to take on Valter and – this here proves the existence of an omnipotent being who listens to the pathetic whining of a college student over a video game – not only survived, but killed him.

I found it way more awesome than I should have.

Anyway, a big humongous thank you to all of you who reviewed! I definitely wasn't expecting such positive reactions; you have all left me pleasantly surprised. I heart all of you.

* * *

Nightmare

It is a strange thing, to see your darkest nightmare become truth.

"_Eirika!_"

She was still standing , despite everything that had happened, stained sword handing limply at her side, the corpse of Grado's most vicious general below it. I kicked my steed faster, but the sand made it nearly impossible for the horse to move; it stumbled, losing more ground than I gained. Still half-numb with the realization that she had killed the Moonstone, I called out to her, hoping against all hope that I could reach her, somehow, before she was _torn apart_ -

"_Eirika!"_

She slowly pulled her hand away from the gash on her side, staring at the blood that had soaked it with dead eyes. The now riderless wyvern shrieked, twisting and writhing, a flesh-hungry monster suddenly free to kill as it wished. She reluctantly tore her gaze away from the sight of her own blood to stare at the beast, dwarfed by its massive size. There was no fear in her stance, no trepidation in her eyes. She welcomed the sight.

"_Eirika!_"

She heard me, finally, my throat raw. She turned away from what surely would be her death and her eyes met mine.

They held nothing but an infinite weariness.

The beast struck, kicking its massive talons forward, striking her, screeching loud enough to drown out all sounds of battle. A single beat of its wings sent a hurricane wind forward, throwing aside half of Valter's army, sending her already beaten body flying. She hit the ground and did not stir.

The world stopped.

I heard nothing but the sounds of my own ragged breathing. I abandoned my horse, running towards her on foot, headless of the mad carnage that surrounded me, unable to stop, unable to think.

_Eirika. Eirika. Eirika._

I was completely numb when I reached her, falling to my knees, turning her over. Her hair was matted with blood and sand. A large bruise was slowly forming on her left cheek; her pale skin was a mess of cuts and scrapes. Her eyes were closed.

She wasn't breathing.

_She wasn't breathing._

My head was swimming, my chest was tight and every part of me was suddenly heavy and I could do nothing because if I moved a fraction of an inch that would make all of it real and I _couldn't -_

She coughed. She coughed and I grabbed her with a cry of raw relief, burying my face into her matted hair. She coughed again and wrapped one of her arms weakly around me and I whispered feverantly that she was to never, _never_, charge to the front lines _ever_ again, no matter what she _thought_ she _had_ to do and she coughed again with what sounded much like a short laugh and she was alive, she was _alive -_

Moulder arrived moments later and practically had to pry her away from me in order to treat her. While the staff succeeded in stabilizing her condition and healing her major injuries, he explained that it would take her days, perhaps weeks, to fully recover. And, despite my protests, Moulder thought it was best for Duessel to carry her away from the fighting, not I. He reminded me, more sternly than I had ever seen him, that we still had a battle to fight.

Only then did my duty return to me. Only then did I realize that I had truly forgotten everything.

The deaths of Valter and Callech were enough to send the scattered remains of Grado's forces into a sloppy retreat. We harried them as they pulled back, if only to speed their leaving. The near dereliction of my duty was enough to shock me back into a stable state of mind, and so I fought once more.

I did not see her again until the next day, when I stepped into the makeshift infirmary to give a statement of our current situation and to politely inquire on how she was currently feeling ("Awful").

When Natasha stepped out of the tent, however, I covered her hand with mine and watched her lips pull into a small, weak smile.


	4. Death

Disclaimer - Not mine.

Best. Disclaimer. EVUR.

A/N - Told you I wasn't dead. My laptop was, though, for an _extremely_ long period of time, which really sucked a ginormous amount of ass.

And yes, this just may be the shortest chapter of anything ever. Forgive me. Many, many thanks to Gunlord500, who showed me how to cheat the site out of sucking.

* * *

Death

Royalty is obsessed with death.

It was a truth of the world I could not escape. Even my father, who went against so many traditions, could not resist planning the aftermath of his own demise down to the smallest detail. Ephraim, I'm sure, has made his arrangements; despite the fact many nobility of Renais regarded my brother as irresponsible, I know he would never, ever, abandon his obligations. I, too, am guilty: Tana and a letter hidden in the supply caravan know what needs to be done.

But when you are staring at death, whether in the form a madman's axe, the lance of a determined soldier, or the face of what was once a dear, gentle friend – all the plans you have made, all the things you so meticulously prepared, all the regrets and desperate hopes you sealed so tightly within that dark place of your heart – they all become nothing.

How can one letter contain all that I was? How could my father have dared to think that the secret of Renais's stone was worth his blood? How could Ephraim ever imagine me living without him?

We of royal blood make our preparations. We plan for that inevitable day that draws ever closer looking forever forward, ever calculating, ever weighing our options, for our deaths could spell the end of nations. We scheme and plan down to the smallest detail on how to make our demise seem like it was all a part of a plan we knew since birth.

But that does not erase our fear of dying.

Then there are those beneath us. Those who have sworn eternal loyalty. Those whose fealty outweighs the fear of death. They charge forward at our whim, kill at our order, die on our command.

The separation between royalty and knighthood has existed unchanged for centuries. Where we lead, they follow. Our word is their law. Our demands are their only purpose.

For me, it becomes harder and harder to remember.

I watch him whenever I can. I trail behind the supply caravans simply to catch a glimpse of him, to know that he is still there. I live for those brief, glorious moments when he catches my gaze and his lips ease into a small, rare smile.

When the blades of our enemies stab from every direction, I look through the bloody chaos for his face. From what feels like a world away, I watch the iron claws of hellbeasts descend upon him like rain and scream his name. When it all finally ends, and the sound of steel and screaming men dulls and dies and turns into another painful memory, I stare at him, at his tired walk and slumped shoulders, at the blood on his armor and the pain in his eyes, and I tremble against the urge to rush across the corpse field and into his arms.

He says he would die for me, just as his duty demands. He tells me that if he must forfeit his life for victory, then he shall accept the fate I deal him. Sacrifices are to be made in war; it is to be expected. He is pawn, a slave to my will.

He says he would die for me.

And deep inside myself, I wonder if he would live for me.


End file.
